Last Kiss: John/Ronon

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"You could come with me," John says. He runs his thumb over the silver eagles, feels the weight of Ronon's gaze on him. He doesn't mean could, he means should, but he can't say that. He doesn't really mean it anyway, he just wishes he did.

"The SGC would be thrilled to have you on a team," he adds. Under his cheek, Ronon's chest rises and falls, a calm, familiar motion. He's been with Ronon nearly as long as he was with Nancy; he's been with Ronon a hell of a lot longer. "Or the IOA – Bates is still with their field division, you know him."

Ronon holds John closer, doesn't say anything. John closes his eyes, the shape of Ronon's bare chest, the wooden charm that always hangs around his neck imprinted on his eyelids.

"You wouldn't have to stay with the SGC. They'd help you, create an identity for you on Earth, if that's what you wanted."

It's probably true, especially since Landry retired; John's team saved General Harrison's life the first time he came to visit Atlantis, and he seems to actually like them. He tries to imagine Ronon as a civilian on Earth. It's not as hard as it should be.

"We could come back here. Visit. It wouldn't be like –"

Ronon shushes him, very quietly, and John goes still. His throat hurts, and he can feel the sharp edges of the insignia cutting into his palm.

"This is my home," Ronon says, the same way he did when Atlantis was lying outside San Francisco, and no-one knew if they'd even ever leave. "My people died in this galaxy, I can't leave them."

John wants to say, 'I'm still here, can you leave me?' but he won't. Not when he's the one leaving. Not when he knows what Ronon means; Dr Ito, their latest civilian commander, would probably look the other way while John slipped through the gate and got lost in Pegasus, but John emails his brother every week, send birthday and Christmas presents to his nieces, engages in drawn out arguments with Mitchell over football and with Carter over the space program. He won't give up his ties to his home-world either, not even the ones that are dead and long buried.

"If there was any other way," he says instead.

"I know." Ronon's hand closes over John's, easing it open and rubbing at the marks on John's skin. "Me, too."

In his head, John chooses and discards a dozen things he could say: we can still keep in touch, this doesn't have to be the end, I'm still going to love you, someday. None of them mean anything, and he's always known this could happen.

He opens his eyes, lifts his head to look into Ronon's familiar brown eyes, the curls that have framed his face ever since he cut his hair at Torren's ceremony of personhood, when he was two. He doesn't try to imagine not seeing that face every day. He's going to be living it soon enough.

He shifts his weight, raises himself up on one arm, uses the other hand to cup Ronon's cheek. Kisses him, slow and careful, storing up the memory. It's the last one he's ever going to get.